


Amnesty

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 02:13:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18540202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Eönwë comes to see why Maglor hasn’t sailed.





	Amnesty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for Solarfox123’s “hurt/comfort or angst with a happy ending with Maglor and Eonwe? Preferably post-Lord of the Rings” request on [my dreamwidth](https://yeaka.dreamwidth.org/1190.html?posted=1&view=6566#cmt6566).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own the Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The halls of Imladris feel _so_ empty now, but that’s as it should be. Maglor has no right to seek solace in the company of his ward, and that sense of _family_ he yearned for is something he should _have_ to live without. He knew as soon as he wandered inland, washing up Elrond’s shores, that he would be punished for his insolence. Yet he lingered anyway, because Elrond had grown up so noble and kind and begged him to stay. Then Elrond begged him to sail, and Maglor couldn’t take that step.

He stays behind, in a land he knows is dying, while every other elf with any sense at all makes their plans for the West. Even Elrond’s sons will someday follow in their father’s footsteps, and they’ll probably ask Maglor to come with them. Maglor’s grown attached to both boys—the spitting image of their father—but he still won’t go. He’s done enough to stain the Eastern lands—he won’t take that darkness home.

In the midst of looking out across the gardens, seated on his settee by the window, Maglor must correct himself. Valinor is no longer _home_ —it hasn’t been since he followed his father out. His fingers pause against the strings of his harp. A deep breath, and the moment passes. Until his life finally fades, as he so wants it to, there’s no more use in stewing in regret. Instead, he keeps that haunted part of himself under the surface, while his body still moves about him. He plays his lilting, broken song. When he becomes too melancholy, Elladan and Elrohir come to sooth him, and he won’t waste any more of their time. 

The next time his melody flickers out, it’s for another reason—something has _changed_. He can feel it in the air, familiar but so distant that he can’t remember where he knows the feeling from. His fingers rise to draw the curtains further back, and he peers about the grounds below, but nothing is out of the ordinary. A pair of visiting wood elves are strolling down the path, a maid from the kitchens taking her break by a flower bed, and an artist sketching the songbirds that flitter from tree to tree. None seem any the wiser. But Maglor’s skin is prickling. Something will happen soon.

The knock on his door startles him. That’s a feat in and of itself—though he hasn’t brandished his sword in years, he’s still a warrior that can hear a feather fall in the dead of night clear across the plains. He looks up but has no time to cross the room. The door opens on its own.

The man that steps through is a vision, a handsome being of pure _light_. Maglor’s harp clatters to the floor.

He rises from his seat. 

He walks forward, but his footsteps falter, and he stops near the bed, unable to reach the doorway. He can’t believe his eyes, yet he _knows_ this is no trick. He can feel it in his bones. He breathes, “It cannot be.”

Glancing backwards, Eönwë closes the door behind himself. It’s surreal, being in a room with him, when the last time they spoke still burns into Maglor every day. Eönwë looks different now: he comes as one would in casual disguise: his wings are away and his white-gold robes are like any elf. The only thing that gives away his nature is his aura: something too bright to be hidden. It’s absurd to think he simply walked through the gates of Imladris, the humble residents unaware of the honour they received. Maglor knows he isn’t worthy.

Eönwë is every bit as beautiful as Maglor remembers. But he wears a frown as he nears the bed, and Maglor backs up, buckling down onto the mattress, needing to sit to steady himself. Eönwë stops, hesitating, as though surprised by Maglor’s reaction. He breathes, “I have waited a long time to hear your music again, Kanafinwë. You can imagine my disappointment when I was told you would never return.”

Maglor can’t imagine that at all. Eönwë should be better off without him, like all of Valinor. It takes him a moment to piece together the rest, and then he understands. He should’ve known that Elrond would speak on his behalf. He should have expected his ward, so extraordinarily _loving_ , to ask the Valar for his forgiveness. Maglor did explain to him, and not too long ago, why that could never be. The Valar must know that: Elrond himself is proof of Maglor’s sin.

Maglor says nothing of any of that, stunned to silence, while Eönwë asks, “Is this true?”

Maglor summons the strength to nod. It’s difficult, faced with the one thing that would most draw him to Valinor. Or one of the two things, now tied with Elrond. But Maglor knew Eönwë far before that, and loved him far longer.

He always knew that wouldn’t come to anything. Eönwë looks at him and frowns so deeply that Maglor’s stomach churns.

Voice soaked in palpable sorrow, Eönwë asks, “Why do you do this to me?”

“I am sorry,” Maglor murmurs, as he has a hundred times in his own mind. “I truly am. For everything. For defying you the first time, for participating in the sins of my father and brothers, for hoarding what was clearly never meant to be mine. For denying your offer the last time you came to me. I am sorry.” But that sorry doesn’t really mean anything, because he still _did_ it all. And even though he regrets the outcome, he would likely follow his father still, if that were an option, and maybe even hold the Silmaril he’d saved.

In the wake of his confession, Eönwë asks, “Then why stay?”

Simple. “Because I _have_ done all of that, and more. My sins run too deep to pardon.”

“And you stay to punish yourself,” Eönwë concludes, before tilting his head to ask, “Is that not the Maiar’s job?”

A dry laugh tumbles out of Maglor’s throat. He can’t believe they’re even having this conversation. He bitterly admits, “I have displeased them enough.”

“And you displease me by staying.”

Maglor’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He never expected to see Eönwë again. He both wanted to and didn’t, because he didn’t think it would go anything like this. While Maglor is floundering, Eönwë strolls towards the bed. He gently takes his seat on it, moving as gracefully as ever, coming to be close enough to Maglor to touch. Maglor has half a mind to reach out and do so just to be sure that this is real.

“I have learned much since the beginning,” Eönwë tells him, voice hushed, but tone reverent: enough to let Maglor know how deeply he means his words. “It took some time, but I have mastered the feelings of this form. I understand now why I had to return to you, time and time again, and why that hollow part of me opened up with your departure. To fill it, I must have my songbird back. I would have you sit under my window again, playing your harp while I work. Perhaps you can no longer sing to me as carefree as you once did, but you can still _sing_ , and I would have that if I may. Come home with me.”

Maglor has no strength left to refuse Eönwë anything. But he does weakly manage: “You should find another.”

“There is no other. ...And I see you have gained more than your scars in these lands, my Kanafinwë. You have also grown the confidence to tell a Maia what they should and should not do.”

Maglor’s cheeks flush. If he were still young, he would splutter in protest. Instead all he does is murmur, “I apologize.”

“Do not apologize. Forgive. That is what I ask of you now, and I implore you not to refuse my love again.”

It was never his love that Maglor turned away from. He always wanted that, but family and oaths held him at bay. Now none of that is left. As if understanding that Maglor can’t say it aloud, Eönwë extends his hand.

After a long hesitation, Maglor breaks and takes it. 

Eönwë pulls him in. The embrace is the most fulfilling thing that Maglor’s felt in centuries: it warms him to his core and seems to heal his wounds, calms his mind and gives him _hope_. He melts against Eönwë’s shoulder, feeling the ghost of Eönwë’s wings wrapping protectively around him. Eönwë breathes into his ear, “You are forgiven, my Kanafinwë.”

Maglor has no words. Eönwë pets him lightly and informs him, “You must pack your things tonight, my love, and say your goodbyes to all that you have known here. Tomorrow we make our journey to the shore. We will travel as your people do. It will give you time to heal, so that when you set foot in Valinor, you are _whole_.”

In Eönwë’s arms, Maglor’s already whole. But he nods against Eönwë’s chest and lets the tears fall away.


End file.
